


In Extremis

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Mary Morstan, Captivity, Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rescue, Starvation, True Love, Worried Sherlock, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22954402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Watson is rescued from the house in Yorkshire with the help of Mary's network.This is part of a Victorian AU where Reichenbach happened, but Moran won and carried on what Moriarty had begun. Watson served two years in prison for gross indecency and Holmes, presumed dead for nearly eight years, returned to him. The two of them work to bring Moran down. John was arrested and has been transferred from the workhouse to a home in Yorkshire, where Moran is holding him captive. Mary has a plan to rescue him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	In Extremis

_My dear Watson._

_As I throw our few belongings in a satchel, I am planning my next steps. They will soon be here, searching these rooms for clues._

_My dear, dear man._

_They must not find me here, but I will not have them go through your possessions, the meagre leftovers of your former life. Here is your brother’s watch, bearing the signs of your father’s cautious existence, your brother’s reckless habits, and your own loving care. You wept when I told you the story I read in the scratches and dents it bore, and you carried it always in your pocket, a reminder of life’s brevity._

_Oh, my darling boy._

_Here is my silver cigarette case, which you carried during your trial, a different kind of reminder— a memento mori. You told me that you did not fear your own death because you knew I would be waiting for you on the other side. When I left the note under that case, I thought these were the last words you would ever have from me. I did not mind my own death, either, as long as you were safe._

_And here is the gold ring I gave you that first Christmas, a token of my undying devotion to you, our unending love. When I made you that promise, I had little idea how we would be tested. Only you ever saw the words I had inscribed inside the band:_ Together SH + JW Always _._

_John, my heart._

_Do not despair. I will find you._

I spent days waiting to hear what had become of John. All Joe Lestrade could learn was that he had been taken to the workhouse in Manchester, but later removed, his debt purchased by an anonymous buyer.

I quit the Bagatelle at once, though that was my best source of information about Moran’s doings. It was too dangerous now that John had been arrested. Moran might notice that his server had disappeared rather suddenly, but Lambert, the head waiter, would give the excuse that I’d unexpectedly had to return home, to France, to deal with a family matter.

That night, when I’d left the flat with a hurriedly-filled satchel of our belongings and reached the corner of Euston Road, I looked back and saw the police arriving. I recognised the officer in charge: Roddy Jones, a knave if ever I’d known one. Seeing him on Seymour Street meant he was looking for more than evidence to further incriminate Watson. Why would he need evidence? Moran’s gang no longer worried about proving guilt in any of the cases sent to the workhouse. 

He was up to something more sinister. I knew Jones to be a man who kept his cards close to his chest, who revealed nothing until he could play his trump and win the hand. He was as smart as Lestrade, whom I’d considered the best of Scotland Yard, and he was disingenuous as well. What occurred to me now was that he had been carefully collecting information. He no doubt suspected I was alive and in London, and was looking for evidence to lay before Moran. Surely that would be a triumph for him.

It would not be long before he found what he was looking for. Until then, I would need to stay on the move, keeping my identity fluid. Jones would put pressure on anyone who might be a friend to me. I would need to be careful of my contact with Joe Lestrade, and completely avoid Simon. This I deeply regretted, as he was the closest thing to a working partner I had now. I trusted him completely. He was sharp, careful, and fearless. But he was in danger of being arrested if a connection to me was suspected. Detaining people I cared about would surely be Jones’ first tactic. Simon was a sensible fellow, and had experience with the police, but I could not risk his freedom.

With John gone, I found my emotions in disarray, shifting like mercury from one extreme to the other. I have never been skilled at sentiment, by which I mean that I deal poorly with my own feelings. I suppose this is a result of having spent so many years trying not to acknowledge them, thinking of sentiment as a handicap to rational thinking— as my present state clearly demonstrated. John’s disappearance turned me into a distracted maniac, unable to put two thoughts together, much less come up with a plan to find him. To have just gotten him back only to lose him again seemed very careless. I blamed myself endlessly, thinking of all the ways I should have protected my John. None of this sentiment was useful in the least.

Nor is pity useful. I could not bear to see Joe and Simon looking at me as if I were about to fall apart, burst into ugly sobs, and require some sort of comforting. I do not like being pitied, people giving me sad eyes and saying meaningless things.

I do not require comforting. I require my own John Watson, back in my arms and unhurt. Anything less would be failure.

To avoid having my friends feel that they must comfort me, I busied myself with multiple changes of residence and identity, even going so far as to sneak into the Bagatelle as a paper-hanger, hoping to pick up gossip about Moran. Alas, Parliament was in recess and he had left London.

For all my activity, I did not accomplish much. It was just a way to avoid thinking about what might happen. I was filled with an almost hopeful energy, but a stray thought would send me into an agitated frenzy without focus. I joked with tradesmen and wept on the train. I raged at Lestrade when I saw him, returning later to tearfully apologise. I was Shakespeare’s weepy clown, demanding _Heart’s Ease_ and then quarrelling with the musicians, calling for jokes and then becoming morose when they were made. In short, I was out of my mind.

My nervous excitement only increased when I came home after attending church one Sunday (keeping to John’s routine) and found Mrs Watson waiting to see me. The news she brought made me realise that I had seriously miscalculated Moran’s reach. Many more people than I had reckoned were swept up into his enterprise, and being sold like slaves.

I had also underestimated Mary Watson née Morstan, which might end up being a good thing, I thought. If I had overlooked her, surely Moran had.

She impressed me, this small, serious woman who had agreed to marry Watson. From our first acquaintance, I had thought her practical, but rather uninteresting. I’d advised Watson to marry her precisely because I did not see them falling in love. She would be a good wife, a good mother, but not a love interest. 

I had not anticipated this Mary Morstan who sat in my shabby little room. She did not look as if she wanted to hug me or make me a soothing cup of tea. Nor did she look as if she needed comforting. Her expression said she wanted to kick doors down and aim weapons at anyone who got in her way. She scorned to sit vigil while other people did the rescuing. _We will get him out of that house,_ she said. I believed her.

She would contact me, she said, when they were ready to make their move, but warned me to let her handle everything. It is ironic that I had spent most of my career solving problems for women who had found themselves in various degrees of trouble, reassuring them that I would handle everything. Now I understood. While it is good to have people on your side, feeling powerless is unbearable. And there is something rather scary about a woman who has just discovered her own power.

Needing something to do while I waited for word from her, I visited the Dispatch, the weekly paper where John had been employed. It was not a proper newspaper, but more a political pamphlet with editorials and topical news. As I opened the door, Brody, the editor, was ranting at his typesetter, who was attempting to repair the press, using every profanity I’d ever heard and a few I hadn’t.

I’d grown a full beard again, and was dressed as a workman. When I entered, he frowned at me for a moment, then laughed, recognising me.

“Read this,” he said, thrusting a handbill at me.

I took it and read:

_Where is John Watson?_

_John H Watson, age 47, veteran of Afghanistan, wounded at Maiwand, a respected physician who has recently written editorials under the pen name Jack Locke, was arrested on the evening of March 20, 1899, unjustly accused of vagrancy, tried without legal representation, and sentenced to the workhouse. His debt was sold to an anonymous buyer. His present location and circumstances are unknown. This citizen merely wishes to know: Where is John Watson?_

_Readers, take note! Any citizen of England can now be taken into custody without warrant, convicted (without evidence) of a crime he has not committed, and sent to a workhouse, where his debt will grow while he works himself to death. Under the current administration of our government, a citizen of England can be SOLD as a SLAVE and bought by anyone with money to pay his debt. John Watson has disappeared because he SPOKE OUT against a government that can do these things. WHO WILL BE NEXT? Maybe YOU?_

There was a picture of Watson above the writing, an engraving made from an old photograph. His appearance had somewhat changed since the photo was made, but it looked enough like him that it would work. Though he is a handsome man, my John has the kind of face that makes people think they’ve met him when they haven’t, and fail to remember him when they have.

“You’re distributing these?” I asked.

“Will be when we get this bitch working,” he replied, gesturing at the press. He glared at the man fixing the machine as if that might speed things up.

“How many are you running?”

“I’ve got paper and ink to print two hundred.”

I imagined how many neighbourhoods that would cover. _Not enough_. “I’ll get you funding to print two thousand.”

I chose a different disguise to visit Joe. This time I stopped at one of my more recent boltholes to put on a white wig and whiskers. By the time I was back on the street, I was an elderly, deformed bookseller. Turning the corner onto Euston, I spotted Simon and his brother.

They were returning to Lestrade’s office after a delivery, arguing as they walked.

“School is where you should be, Tommy,” Simon was saying. “I’ll not have you running these streets. Not with gangsters picking up truants. Do you want to go to the workhouse?”

“If I do, I bet I’ll find Doc,” replied the boy evenly. “We should be working from the inside, not shuffling papers.”

“Those papers may prove our case.” Simon glanced up and saw me.

I cannot count the number of times I have fooled Watson with disguises. If he saw me swagger out of the bedroom as a rakish young workmen wearing drill trousers held up by braces and a mismatched wool jacket, he would exclaim over my ability to not simply don a disguise, but to become a character. If he saw that same character on the street, he would walk by, unaware that he had just passed the man who shared his bed each night. I found it endlessly entertaining, and sometimes played on his credulity more than I ought to have.

Perhaps it was these fond memories that led me to try my trick on Simon and Tommy. I had intended to offer them _The Origin of Tree Worship_ , and was making my shambling approach towards them with the volume in hand, but Tommy, short of stature and lacking adult manners, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Why, it’s Mr Scott!”

Swearing them to secrecy, I said I’d trail after them to Joe’s office. I waited on the street for a few minutes before entering.

I was carrying a pile of books, trying to keep my wig and whiskers straight, while simultaneously hunching over like an old man and limping a bit. The seedy frock coat I’d picked up at a used clothing shop smelled like something rancid had grafted itself into the fabric, and my wool stockings were beginning to itch. Walking bent over was giving my back considerable grief. I was beginning to wonder if I’d overdone the costuming, when Joe came out of the back office and saw me.

“How may I help you, sir?” he asked. As always, he was polite, but it was clear that he wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible. Simon and his brother stood back, hiding their smirks.

“I see that you are a collector of books, Mr Lestrade,” I croaked. “You might not recognise me, but I am a neighbour of yours. You’ll find my little bookshop two streets over, on Henry Street. I’ve brought a few volumes with me for your inspection, a bargain, every one of them. I notice you have an untidy gap on your shelf there.” I nodded at the shelves where he kept his law books. “With a few volumes you might fill that. Perhaps you’d be interested in this Catullus I have here—“ The books were slipping out from under my arm; I attempted to set them on the corner of Simon’s desk. Unfortunately my tinted spectacles were also slipping down my nose, and I missed. The pile fell to the floor.

“I’m afraid Latin poetry is not my bailiwick,” Joe said, kneeling to assist me.. “I’m a solicitor, Mister…? What did you say your name was?”

As he rose to his feet, I straightened my posture and whipped off the a pile of white hair. Behind me, I heard Simon and Tommy snorting with laughter.

For a moment, he stared blankly at me, as if I might have dropped out of the ceiling or materialised out of thin air.

Simon whooped. “You should see your face, Joe!”

“Your face!” Tommy yelped.

Lestrade made a wry face. “Mr Scott.”

I stretched myself to my full height. “Ah, it’s no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature, even for two blocks.”

Joe sighed, but smiled at me. “We haven’t seen much of you, sir. What have you been up to?”

“This,” I said, holding the handbill out. “Brody is printing a couple hundred, but he’ll need funding to make more. Two, maybe three thousand, I think, would be enough to start with.”

“What’s the strategy?” he asked, squinting at the handbill.

“I do not expect to overthrow the government with a small advertisement, but there are several things it might accomplish. First, to stir up enough people to make life inconvenient for members of Parliament. Second, to drive Moran to distraction trying to put out a thousand small fires while we rescue Watson.”

“I can get our boys to do some graffiti as well,” said Simon. “They can chalk the question on quite a few walls by tomorrow, raise some curiosity. That way, people are more apt to read the bills.”

“I’ll get you the money, but we need to be cautious,” Lestrade said. “He’ll move Watson if he suspects we’re planning something. Until we know where he’s being held, we can’t risk it.”

“That will soon be remedied. I received a visit from Mrs Watson just yesterday. She has located him.”

“Where is he? And how has she discovered this?”

“Yorkshire. She knows people working in the house where he’s been taken. I am expecting word from her at any moment that they are ready to undertake a rescue.”

“They?”

“A former client of mine, Miss Violet Hunter, and several other ladies have banded together with Mrs Watson.”

“So,” he said. “School teachers, governesses, and housemaids? These are your band of revolutionaries?”

“Don’t sneer, Joe,” I said. “They are staunchly committed to bringing down Moran and his cronies, and have taken on this task with the same degree of efficiency and resolve that their mothers channeled into knitting stockings for soldiers serving in the Crimea. It almost makes me ashamed to be a man, seeing so many of our gender bow down to that bastard. We really must give women the vote.”

As if he’d been off-stage waiting for a cue, Jack Wiggins, one of Bill’s younger brothers, came running through the door, waving a telegram. “Mr Scott, sir!” he cried. “Telegram!”

“So much for my brilliant disguises,” I muttered. “Give it to me.”

I read, and felt my heart drop. I tried not to show my agitation.

“What is it?” Simon asked.

“He has moved Watson,” I said. “Something must have happened. He’s still on the estate, but the servants were forced to put him in a well. As he is already weakened by starvation, she fears he will not last long.” I folded the telegram and placed it in my coat pocket. “I’m going there.”

They looked at me, most likely assessing my ability to think rationally.

“What is the plan?” Joe asked.

“She doesn’t say. Nevertheless, she bids me meet her at the White Lion in York.”

“I’m going with you,” Simon said. “Wiggins can manage things here, with the handbills and the wall scratchings.”

“She bids me come alone,” I said. “I think you and Lestrade will have your hands full here, if I’m not mistaken.”

Simon shook his head stubbornly. “I won’t let you go alone, sir. I owe you and the Doctor too much.”

Joe nodded. “He’s right. You really should not travel alone. If my guess is correct, Moran has figured out that you are in London. Therefore, Simon must go with you, another set of eyes looking out for trouble, and a younger physique than your own, in case you are ambushed. I will handle things here.”

I agreed, and we caught the next train to York.

We left London in an apathetic drizzle, but as we traveled north the day quickly became clear and brisk. I sat next to the window, staring reproachfully at the landscape that dared be so full of light and life while Watson was in captivity.

“You must not blame yourself,” Simon said.

“Why not?” I continued my disapproval of the countryside. “Here’s the devil of it— he grieved me for over seven years, thinking I was dead. He subjected himself to prison without complaint, and forgave me when I returned. What kind of man am I never to have realised how that might have destroyed him? All the time I was away, I just kept thinking, _I’ll return and all will be well._ He thought I was dead, Simon! Ye gods! Here am I, a few weeks into his absence, and simply not knowing is tearing me to pieces. I have not the stamina he has, not the mettle for this—“

“Calm yourself,” he said quietly. “Doctor Watson is strong, as you say, and he will not be defeated. Have faith in him. And you must not raise your voice so. I know we are alone in this compartment, but we’re still trying to be secret about this. Close your eyes for a while and try to sleep.”

I shut my eyes, but sleep did not come.

_My John._

_Mycroft saw it. I remember him asking me me, “Why him?” It wasn’t because he didn’t already understand. He was telling me: you must be sure about this one; it will not be easy. Be prepared for grief. Be prepared to stand by him, whatever happens._

_We were not yet thirty when we met, but you were always so much older, my love. You survived a war, lost people dear to you, and returned ill and crippled by your injuries. What a child I must have seemed to you, dancing around the lab, gloating over my blood test, gleefully demanding praise for my discovery. You were amazed— not at my brilliance, but surely at my ignorance. When you wrote about my ‘small vanity,’ you were much kinder than I deserved._

_“The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.”_

_“Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things.”_

_These things I have said, and you wrote them in your stories. At that time I believed that if I were to accomplish anything of note in my life, I should forgo any attachments. That was why I struggled against my feelings when you came to live with me. I thought too highly of myself, too little of you._

_But it was you, John Watson. From that time forward, it was always for you, for your praise and admiration, that I preened myself. Unlike me, you did not seek admiration, and shrugged off praise, though you were much more worthy of it. Whatever tragedies life gave, you bore quietly, unwilling to inconvenience others with your suffering. You have always been a better man than I will ever be._

_When accused, you did not deny me. I hope I would have done the same, my dearest one. I will not deny you now, whatever happens._

At four o’clock, Simon and I sat in the White Lion, waiting for Mrs Watson to appear. Simon was quiet, seeming aware of my agitation and clearly unwilling to endure another rant like the one I’d delivered to him on the train.

Thinking of this, I apologised. Watson has taught me at least the value of not abusing one’s friends.

“No apologies necessary, sir. You are not quite yourself,” he said, patting my arm. “But soon we will right things. He’s a tough man, our doctor, and will not give up the fight.”

I reminded myself that Simon meant well, but his words started me on another train of thought that led straight to despair. What if Moran had anticipated that we would find out where Watson was, what if he had moved him again, what if he had already...

“Don’t think of it,” Simon said, somehow reading my mind. “Whatever happens, we must not let ourselves lose hope. We need to be shrewder than he thinks himself.”

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” I said. “Thank you Simon.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Before long, the barman came and handed me a card informing me that I should go to an upstairs room. He pointed us to the stairway. “Second door on the left.”

There we found Mary with Violet Hunter. I introduced Simon and explained his insistence on accompanying me. Tea was delivered; we sat and drank from china cups as if everything were completely normal, as if my John were not dying in a well, a prisoner of evil men. My hands shook as I took my cup.

“It’s just as well you’re here,” Miss Hunter said, nodding at Simon. “We may need the extra hands, if things go awry. Are you armed?”

He nodded. “We’re both carrying revolvers. I’m afraid we are not as proficient marksmen as Doctor Watson, but sometimes just threatening a man at gunpoint is enough to ensure cooperation.”

“Mrs Watson, forgive me,” I began. “My impatience is getting the better of me. What is the plan, and what part are we to play?”

“We will take a coach to the house at six o’clock,” she said. “Colonel Moran will be alone, his host having departed for London this morning to take care of some business. Not entirely alone, I should say, as the Colonel always travels with one or two men, his gangsters, who are undoubtedly armed. It is his habit to begin drinking before dinner and continue into the evening. The kitchen staff will slip a soporific in his second drink, when his reactions are dulled, so he will not notice the taste. His bodyguards are given a drink with their dinner, but we must not let him think anything is amiss by drugging them too soon. They will escort him to bed. Once they feel he is secure, another bottle will be offered them, into which the housemaid will have introduced the same soporific.” She showed me a drawing of the house’s floor plan, indicating entrances, windows, and the main rooms of the house. “This should be the state of things when we arrive. The butler will note our arrival and set things in motion.”

“Are all the servants cooperating?”

“They are. The butler and the housemaid have made all the preparations. The house owner, Horace Davies, is cruel to the staff, and Colonel Moran is a frequent visitor, equally hated. We had planned to move tonight in any case; the absence of Davies is just a happy chance. Once Moran and the guards are passed out, some of the servants will lead us out to the well. They have the necessary tackle to lift him out.”

“And then we will take him in the coach— where?”

“I know a house close by, in Harrogate, where we can bring him and summon a doctor to tend to him. It is owned by Elias Garland, a contributor to our school. He will be quite safe there.”

There was still time to pass before we could set out for Hayward House. My restlessness to be on our way irritated the ladies, I’m afraid. I listened as they explained the network of houses where business was done by Moran and his associates, but found it hard to think of anything besides my John. He might be very ill by now, after weeks of mistreatment. Perhaps he was unconscious. The well was no longer functional, Miss Hunter had said, but even a dry well can have several feet of fetid water in the bottom.

“And if things do not go as planned, what will we do?” I asked. “Is there a backup plan?”

Mrs Watson looked at me with sympathy. “Mr Holmes, I know this is difficult for you. Violet has convinced me to let you come along, but you will have to wait outside while we make sure the Colonel is incapacitated. Only then will it be safe for you and Simon to assist. We have the cooperation of the staff, who know what to do in any eventuality.”

“She’s right, Mr Holmes,” said Simon. “These ladies have done their research, and we must let ‘em work as they’ve planned.”

“At least you must send someone out to summon us if there is trouble.”

They agreed that Lizzie, one of the kitchen girls, would fetch us in case we were needed.

Our vehicle stopped before reaching the house, giving us a distance to negotiate in the twilight. A signal light flashed from the house, confirming that it was safe to approach. Simon and I waited behind the house, in the kitchen garden. My mind was apprehensive, my nerves on tenterhooks. It was quickly growing darker, and though the cover of night would help conceal our activities, the chance of anything going wrong was greater in the dark. And I was still not entirely convinced that there wasn’t a traitor among the staff.

We had waited for no more than ten minutes when I sensed that something was wrong. I caught glimpses of people moving inside the kitchen, and then the door opened and a young girl, not older than thirteen, ran towards us.

“Help!” she gasped. “The Colonel has taken them!”

My first impulse was to run out back and see if Watson could be rescued, but I would need help to do that. And I could not abandon Mary, not after all she had done for us. A man like Moran would not hesitate to kill a woman.

“How many men does he have here, in the house?”

“There’s just the two of them, he and his one man. Mr Davies left this morning.”

“Wait here,” I told her. “Is there someone you can send for the police?”

She nodded. “The stable boy will go if I tell him.”

“Good girl. I think that you should direct him to do that now.” Whatever the outcome, I felt that waiting any longer would be a mistake.

“The police might be his men,” Simon pointed out.

“This is not London; the police here are likely not under his thumb. We’ll have to chance it.” I nodded at the girl, and she ran towards the stables.

Simon and I went in through the kitchen, our revolvers drawn. I remembered the map Mary had shown me, and knew they were likely in the library, where the Colonel generally had his evening drink.

The door was closed, but we could hear voices. I surmised that he had not consumed his drink as usual. Either he had anticipated the trap and sprung it (faking the signal light), or his men had accidentally stumbled on our plot. Being a hunter and a military man, he had taken control of the situation at once.

I put my hand on the doorknob. Simon shook his head. _Wait for police,_ he mouthed.

But I did not think that Moran would not shoot us, not yet. The police would be here in a half an hour, minimum, I judged, and I wasn’t sure Watson had that long. I turned the knob and opened the door.

The women sat on a small settee, their weapons having been confiscated. Moran stood from his chair, holding his own revolver pointed at them. His man stood behind him, his gun also drawn.

“Mr Holmes,” he said when we stood in the doorway. “Please come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

He had aged obviously since we met on the train in Italy. Signs of excess could be read all over him, from his puffy eyes to his bloated belly. I was older as well, but assessing him as a potential opponent, I thought I had some advantage in hand-to-hand grappling, having boxed at Cambridge. As a marksman, though, he was unquestionably superior. As long as he held a gun in his hand, I would not dare anything. We would need a distraction, and then perhaps— but I had no idea how I might do this.

Mrs Watson looked furious. “Your time to gloat will soon be over, you monster.”

He did not even cast a glance at her. “You surprise me, Holmes. I did not expect you to send women to do your work. Perhaps now you can see the drawbacks of that plan.” He motioned to his man, who disarmed us.

“I believe there are more drawbacks to _your_ plan, Colonel. By tomorrow morning, everyone in London will know what you’ve done with John Watson. Killing us will only make things worse. How long do you suppose people will tolerate your abuses? You’re not as smart as Professor Moriarty, who might have painlessly gotten control of both Houses without anyone noticing. He might even have convinced everyone that he was helping the poor with these strict measures. No, you are not Moriarty, not by a long shot. That much is obvious.”

“I control the government of the largest empire on earth,” he said, his face twisting into an ugly grimace. “Your brother was a petty clerk with limited powers.”

“Perhaps that is true. But you’ve made two mistakes.”

He laughed savagely. “If you mean I should have killed you in Milan, you’re right. I admit I should have shot you and pushed your body off the train.”

“That is not what I mean. I am a relatively unimportant player in this final act of your tragedy. Killing me in Italy would have made no difference.”

“Then what mistakes have I made? Perhaps you can give me a good laugh before I shoot you.”

“In the first place, you have thoroughly alienated the lower classes, who greatly outnumber you, and have made them so desperate that they will soon rise up and force you out. As a hunter, you should have known better than to underestimate those who appear weak and small. Even bees, the gentlest and most industrious of creatures, can sting a man to death. And they are not easy to kill. Shooting them, for example, does no good.”

“People are not bees,” he snarled.

“Secondly, you do not completely control the police or the army, a foolish mistake for a former soldier to make. I assume history was never your best subject, or you would have remembered all those emperors murdered by the Praetorian Guard. A soldier would have won the hearts of the army before anything else. But you were always a hunter first, weren’t you?”

His face flushed. “Well, I won’t make the mistake of letting you live this time. The hunt is over, Holmes. I am holding a gun, and you are not.”

I had noticed the tiny kitchen maid who had crept into the room, carrying a tray with a bottle and glasses and setting it down on a table. It was she who saw the opportunity and took it. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, she aimed a blow right at Moran’s bollocks, connecting in a direct hit. His revolver went off, the shot fortunately going wild, lodging in the ceiling. With a cry of pain, he collapsed onto the floor, where he curled weeping for some moments.

Mrs Watson nodded at Miss Hunter, who retrieved his revolver. With a fair approximation of experience, she aimed it at his head.

At once I turned my attention to the gangster. He seemed to be caught in a moment of indecision, his mouth open and slack, his eyes wide. I noted that he was younger even than Simon, and from the way he handled his weapon, I guessed that he had most likely never fired a gun with intent to kill.

“Are you still willing to protect this man?” I asked. “If you are, be prepared to stand trial. At the very least, you will be considered an accomplice to anything that happens in this house.”

The man— who resembled nothing so much as an overgrown boy— glanced at his boss and then back at me. “I didn’t kill no one.”

“Wrong,” I said. “You didn’t kill _anyone._ But you will certainly be tried for murder if the man out in the well dies. Are you prepared to take the blame for this? For you surely will be the scapegoat.” I nodded at Moran. “This man is no better than the lowest gang leader. He considers people like you expendable.”

“I know you,” Simon said suddenly. “You used to run with the Pugilists, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said. “I recognise you as well. You were with the Irregulars. Bill Ogden is my name.”

“I’m Simon Thomas. It’s clear that none of this was your idea, Bill. If you let us have our revolvers, we’ll see that you’re treated fairly.”

Moran had regained his breath by now and sat up. “Shoot them!” he yelled.

“Do be quiet,” Miss Hunter said. “This revolver is getting heavy and I’m thinking about unloading a few bullets. Maybe your head would be a good target for them.”

Faced with this display of feminine determination, Bill Ogden handed the weapons to Simon.

“If you were amiable, Colonel Moran,” Mary said, “people would not be throwing bottles at you or aiming revolvers at your head. They might even be willing to die for you— or for your ugly cause. As it is, I’m afraid things are about to go very badly for you.”

“If you have killed Watson,” I added, “I will personally make sure you die in the most painful way possible.”

Mrs Watson picked up her weapon and aimed it at Ogden. “Go on, Mr Holmes. The groundsmen will help you.”

Lizzie, that brilliant child, had left the room before us and was at the well when we arrived. Two fairly large men were rigging a harness and discussing which one of them was the lightest to lower down.

“Never mind—“ I stripped off my coat. “Send me.”

Simon stepped in front of me. “No, Mr Holmes. It’s a narrow space. You’re narrow as well, but I’m afraid your long limbs will get tangled up down there.” He grabbed my trembling hands. “And you’re highly strung right now as well. Let me, please. It would be my privilege.”

Reluctantly, I nodded. As they fitted Simon into the harness and attached it to the tackle, I shouted down the shaft. “Watson! It’s Holmes— we’re sending someone down to rescue you. Say something if you can hear me!”

There was no reply. I listened and shone a lantern down the shaft, trying to see how deep it was, but the light was swallowed in the darkness.

“What’s the depth?” I asked.

“One hundred, maybe a bit more. It’s not been used for years.”

“It smells like there’s water down there.”

“A few inches,” the man said. “We lowered him down on a rope. Got one of the boys to go down with him, make sure he was all right. But we’ve been watched all day— nobody’s been allowed near.”

They began turning the crank, lowering Simon. For a few minutes all we could hear was the squeaking of the pulley. Then a distant splash.

“Simon!” I called down.

There was a long pause, more splashing. Finally, “Here! He’s alive.”

The next moments were even longer as I had to imagine John being fitted into the harness and fastened in.

“Simon!”

“I’m coming up with him,” Simon called. “He’s unconscious.”

I saw the rope become taut, several tugs, the signal that they were ready. The groundsmen started cranking them up, more slowly than before because of the added weight. We all waited in absolute silence, fearing some mishap on the way up. The groundsmen turned the crank, their faces shiny with sweat in the lamp light. At last Simon’s head appeared. Once they reached the top, he climbed onto the wellhead, steadying Watson’s body. My first glimpse of John was shocking— his arms and legs like sticks, his ribs showing through his wet undershirt, his head lolling. He looked like a corpse.

I must have let out an involuntary cry, for Simon gave me a reassuring smile. “He’s breathing, sir. I checked. Heart’s beating, lungs pumping. No broken bones. They’ve been starving him for days, though, and he’s very weak.”

They gently lifted him out of the harness; I took him in my arms. His limbs felt like ice. A woman from the house had brought blankets. I held him as they wrapped them around him.

“Water,” I said, feeling for his carotid. Someone handed me a tin cup filled with water. I held it to his lips. “John, you must drink something.”

He moaned, which was a good sign, but did not open his eyes. No one spoke.

“John, please. You’re so cold— oh, God, don’t be dead— look at me, love, please.”

His eyelids fluttered. Another moan. He mumbled something unintelligible.

“It’s me— Holmes. Sherlock. John, open your eyes.”

“Sherlock.” His hands reached out, fumbling. He began to tremble violently. “Wait.”

Not caring what anyone thought, I held him close, placing my lips near his ear. “I’m here, John.”

His eyes flew open then and his freezing hands went to my face. By the light of the lanterns I could see his expression— startled fear and wonder. He gasped and leaned his head against my chest. “Finally,” he whispered.

“You’re going to be all right.” I didn’t recognise my own voice, high and tight, as if I were being strangled. “You’ll be fine.”

“Try some water again,” Simon urged.

I held the cup to his lips and tilted it. He began to swallow at once, gulping the water until the cup was empty.

Simon took the cup. “We need to get him warm.”

“Right.” I lifted him up— dear God, he felt so frail! I have carried him before; for a small man, he has always been solid, heavier than he looks. Now I lifted him as easily as I might carry a child.

As we set off for the house, we could see lights coming across the lawn. The police had arrived and were entering the house. In a few minutes, one came out through the kitchen door and crossed the yard towards us. I recognised him as Inspector Walker of the Yorkshire Constabulary, with whom Watson and I had worked many years ago.

“Mr Holmes,” he greeted me. “Is Doctor Watson all right?”

“He will be. Needs some feeding up. What is the situation in the house?”

“All locked down. Mrs Watson and Miss Hunter, with the assistance of the servants, have captured a dangerous criminal,” he said. “He won’t be getting off this time.”

The coach brought us to the Garlands’ home in Harrogate, less than an hour away. By the time we arrived, Watson’s hands were warmer, and he was drowsing in my arms. He opened his eyes as servants brought lanterns to light our way into the house. Seeing Mary sitting opposite us, he seemed confused.

She smiled at him. “You’re with friends now, John. You’re safe.”

He looked up at me. “You’re really here. You found me.”

“No,” I said. “Mary did.” I looked at her, unable to find words that expressed what I felt. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “I’ve kept my promise. He’s always been yours, and now I give him back to you. Take care of him— and yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not letting him go.”

That night I lay beside him in the bed, but did not sleep. I only watched him, marvelling at the treasure I had nearly lost. He slept restlessly, crying out again and again in bad dreams, but I held him in my arms, reassuring him. “You’re here, I’m here, we’re fine,” I whispered. “The nightmare is over. We will not be parted.”

**Author's Note:**

> The next part will be an epilogue where we will learn what kind of normal everyone returned to after this. Thank you for reading and following this angsty story!
> 
> Watson in the well: I thought The Final Problem (BBC) was a mess, but I did like seeing John trapped in the well. There is still the unanswered question: how did he pull himself out with the rope if he was chained to the well? No chains here; I just like rescuing Watson from tight spots, so I borrowed the well.


End file.
